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RHYMES 


OF  THE 


RGAD  AND  RIVER 


By  CHRIS.  WHEELER 


Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike; 

Songs  of  the  Schuylkill  River; 

Bent  Oars  and  Broken  Spokes  ; 
Cycling  Bab  Ballads. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

E.  STANLEY  MART  cS:  CO. 

18S5. 


Copyright,  1885,  by  Chris.  Wheelek. 


TO 

EDGAR  C.  HOWELL,  Esq., 

IN    REMEMBRANCE 
OF 

Many  Pleasant  Associations, 

and  as  a  slight  token  of  sincere  esteem, 

THIS     BOOK 

Is  Inscribed 

BY 

THE  AUTHOR. 


PREFACE. 


THE  author  makes  no  pretensions  and  therefore 
tenders  no  apologies  for  what  the  reader  may  find  in 
this  book,  even  though  he  is  aware  of  the  fact, — unknown 
perhaps  to  those  of  his  friends  who  pressed  him  to  pub- 
lish this  volume, — that  he  might,  and  perhaps  will,  do 
better  if  ever  he  falls  into  the  publishing  pit  again.  With 
respect  to  this  book,  he  washes  his  hands  completely  of, 
and  makes  over  to  several  sanguine  and  enthusiastic 
friends,  all  responsibility  attached  to  the  act  of  issuing 
from  the  press  what  he  feels  is  after  all  but  a  gathering 
together  of  random  rhymes ;  many  of  them  too  hastily 
and  thoughtlessly  written,  all  of  them  perhaps  too  care- 
lessly collected,  and  placed  in  the  hands  of  a  publisher, 
to  receive  from  him  more  attention,  whether  merited  or 
unmerited,   than    very    probably    they    obtained    from   the 

author  of  their  existence. 

v 


vi  Preface. 

So  Chris  tenders  no  apologies  for  his  "  Rhymes." 
No,  not  even  to  the  ultra  cultured  intellects  of  Boston, 
though  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  "  Hub  "  are  centred 
some  of  his  earliest  recollections,  recollections  of  a  time 
when  though  oars  bent  and  flashed  across  Massachusetts 
waters,  no  noiseless  rubber-hoofed  steed  carried  a  rider 
over  the  roads  of  Cape  Ann,  or  bore  him  to  a  seat  on  the 
rocks  of  Cohasset. 

So  much  for  the  general  public,  in  case  it  should — 
unfortunately  for  itself — be  brought  into  any  sort  of  rela- 
tionship with  this  book.  As  for  my  numerous  and  kind 
friends  in  Philadelphia,  amongst  whom  for  four  years  I  have 
had  generously  tendered  to  me  and  have  enjoyed  those  social 
relationships  and  sympathies  which  sometimes  we  value  too 
lightly  ;  I  will  allow  that  in  this  special  case,  it  is  but  a  poor 
return  for  me  to  add  to  my  many  faculties  for  testing  their 
long-suffering  good  nature,  the  most  questionable  one  of 
calling  into  existence  and  unloading  upon  them  the  "  bore  " 

of  a  book.  , 

Chris  Wheeler. 
West  Philadelphia,  September  20th,  1885. 


CONTENTS. 


LAYS    OF   LANCASTER    PIKE. 

To  My  Bicycle,  13 

America's  Song  of  the  "Wheel,"     ....  18 

A  Morning  Ride, .  21 

Night  Lights,  .......  23 

The  Breeze  of  Bryn  Mawr,  .....  25 

A  Cycling  Yarn  Told  on  Lancaster  Pike,         .         .  28 

A  Song  of  Lancaster  Pike,  •  •         •         •         •  35 

On  the  Road, 38 

Bryn   Mawr  Town,        .......  40 

The  Pike  Pump,        .......  43 

A  Ride  at  the  Close  of  Winter,        .  ...  45 

Devon,  Fair  Devon,  ...  .         .  46 

Tightened  Spokes,         .......  48 

To  J ,       ........  49 

vii. 


viii  Contents. 

SONGS   OF  THE   SCHUYLKILL   RIVER. 

Beautiful  Schuylkill,               ......  53 

Cycling  by  the  Schuylkill,          .....  56 

An  Autumn  Ride  up  the  Wissahickon,         ...  58 

On  the  Schuylkill,              ......  61 

Oar  Echoes,          ........  63 

By  the  River,             .......  66 

Song  of  the  Pennsylvania  Bicycle  Club,         ...  68 

The  Last  Song,         .......  71 


BENT   OARS   AND    BROKEN   SPOKES. 

Bent  Oars  and  Broken  Spokes,              ....  75 

A  Shadow  Hope,                ......  77 

Roll  On,  My  Cycle !              78 

Souvenir,            ........  79 

A  River  Dream,            .......  Si 

Friendship's  Influence,                .....  82 

"  Good-bye,  Rob,"                S3 

I  Cannot  Forget,               ......  86 

Memories,              ........  87 

Air  Wheels,                 .......  89 


Contents.  ix: 

Once  Again,           ........  91 

To  Annie  ,             .....          .  92 

Tom  Moore's  Cottage,          ......  95 

Niagara,              97 

Two  Songsters  of  two  Lands,       .....  99 

Song  of  Italian  Sailor  on  board  the  Guido,  1879,         •  IO° 

Memory  Arches,             .......  102 

Sing  Me  a  Song,       .......  104 

To  Helen  ,        .         .         .         .         .         .         .106 

Query,       .........  108 

Written  on  the  Back  of  a  Birthday  Card,       .          .          .  109 

Trifles,       .          .          .          .          .         .          .          .          .  no 

There's  a  Steed  whose  Hoofs  Require  no  Care,        .         .  in 

The  Broken  Axle,      .         .         .         .          .         .         .  112 

My  Friend's  Baby, 113 

To  , 114 

Westward,  Ho!              116 

An  Afternoon  Ride,          .         .         .         .         .         .  117 

Adieu,  .         .         .  .         .  .         .         .         .118 

Friendship,        .         .          .          .          .          .         .          .  119 

Recreation,  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .120 

Give  Me  All , 122 

By  the  Stream,                123 

Your  Autograph,  Please, 124 

Oar  Bend  the  Last,               125 


x  Contents. 

CYCLING  BAB   BALLADS. 

A  Lay  of  a  Race,         .         .         .         .         .  .         .129 

Fortune's  Like  the  Bicycle,        .          .          .  .          .            130 

Lancaster  Pike,     .         .         .         .         .         .  .          .131 

A  First  Ride,             .......  133 

The  Lay  of  a  Recreant,        .         .         .         .  .          .136 

"Le  Misanthrope,"            ......  138 

The  Britisher's  Lament,        .          .         .          .  .          .141 

The  Britisher's  Lament,   No.  2,          .          .  .          .            145 

Devon  Hill,            .         .         .         .         .         .  .          .148 

T.  A.  S.  (oh's)  Lament?    .         .         .         .  .         .           149 

Short  Pants  and  Long  Lungs,       .          .         .  .          .151 

The  Devil  Take  the  Bicycle,              .          .  .          .            153 

Rhyme  the  Last,           .         .         .         .          .  .          .154 


LAYS  OF  LANCASTER  PIKE. 


TO  MY  BICYCLE. 

MY  bicycle  !  my  brave   old  steed  ! 
I  would  not  part  with  'thee 
Were  all  the  pleasures  life  could  give 

Flung  in  its  lap  for  me  ; 
I  would  not  give  the  glorious  sense 

Of  joy  bound   in   thy  wheel, 
For  all  the  vaunted  pleasures  life 

Could,  or  could  not   reveal. 
For  where  can   I  so  surely  find, 

Outside  of  human   kind, 
A  friend   like  thee,  who  never  fails 
To  ease   this   tired   mind  ? 

13 


14  Lays  of  Lancaster  Fike. 

I  only  sought  in  thee  for  what 

My  other  pastimes  yield, 
But  now,  I  would  not  give  thee  up 

For  all  in  pleasure's  field. 

I  love  the  motion  of  thy  rush, 

The  cool  air  coursing  free 
Away  behind,  where  vanished  scenes 

Have  left  their  smile  with  me, 
The  pulse's  throb,  the  panting  breath, 

The  lazy,  lingering  stroll, 
The  leaves  of  nature's  book,  which  oft 

The  old  dame  will   unroll ; 
All  speak  to  me  in  varied  tones, 

And  tell  the  same  old  tale, 
They  sing  the  same  sweet  song  that  breaks 

From  wood,  and  height,  and  vale — 
The  same  old  tale  that  lives  and  laughs 

Within  the  streamlet's  flow, 
The  same  old  song  that's  softly  sung 

'Mid  trees  where  breezes  blow. 


Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike.  1 5 

They  nourish  still  my  dearest  wish, 

My  wild,  untamed   desire, 
To  revel  in  a  life  of  which 

The  heart  could  never  tire  ; 
'To  ramble  where,  unfettered  with 

The  tramm'ling  laws  of  men, 
I  find  no  mark  to  bid  me  shun 

Rude  height  or  rocky  glen. 
Yes,  thou  canst  bear  me  swift  to  where 

In  semblance  nature  still, 
Holds  sway  o'er  scenes  that  once  but  knew 

And  owned  no  other  will 
Save  that,  which  bade  the  river  run 

As  it  had   run  before, 
Save  that  which  threw  no  steel  track  down 

Alomr  its  level  shore. 


*s> 


My  brave  old  "  wheel !"   my  true  old  "  wheel  !" 
Thou'lt  bear  me  oft  again, 

'Mid  scenes  and  sounds  that  own  no  rule- 
Save  that  of  nature's  reign  ; 


1 6  Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike. 

The  cares  that  will  beset  our  life, 

Born  of  the  strife  that  brings 
To  hearts  and  hands  the  semblance  but 

Of  fortune's  gilded   rings, 
Are  scattered  by  thy  kindly  aid, 

Are  flung  where  far  behind, 
They  vex  no  more  the  heart  that  yields 

Its  dearest   rights  to  mind. 
The  showy  tribute  wrung  from  life 

By  eager,   grasping  hands, 
Is  after  all  but  gold  foil  wrapped 

Round  griping  iron  bands  ; 
The  shining  gleam,  the  tempting  blaze, 

Of  glory  lingering  there, 
Creeps  in  at  last  and  crushes  out 

The  life  that  lives  by  care. 

Then  bear  me  on,  my  gallant  wheel ; 

No  pulse  of  life  may  dwell 
Within  thy  limbs   of  burnished  steel, 

Which  serve  thy  master  well  ; 


Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike.  ly 

But  still  it  seems  to  me  that  oft 

An  answering  thrill  from  thee, 
Gives  back  some  free-born  fancy,  drawn 

By  nature's  touch  from  me. 
Then  bear  me  on,  we  leave  afar 

The  wheel  of   human  strife 
And,  listening,  hear  a  voice  that  whispers, 

Cycler,  love  thy  life. 


AMERICA'S   SONG    OF    THE    "  WHEEL." 

CYCLING'S  summons  is  sounding  far 
O'er  each  Commonwealth  proud  that  owns  a  star, 
In  the  dark  blue  ground  of  the  banner   grand, 
That   flings  its  folds  o'er  our   fatherland; 

And  where'er  outflung,  unfurled,    unrolled, 
That  summons  leaps  from  each    falling  fold. 

From  the  hardy  land   of  the  wild  north  breeze, 

Where  the  pine  knots  blaze  and  the  great  lakes  freeze, 

To  the  land  where  cousins  in   Southern  clime 

Have  strung  a  new  spoke  in  the  "wheel"  of  time, 

Flies    the  welcome    message  which   makes    us  feel, 

\\  hat  a  union  link    is  the  steed  of  steel. 
iS 


Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike.  19 

And  the  new  spoke  fitted  in  Southern  land 
Is  as  firm  and  true  as  the  "  New  South's  "  hand, 
Which  has  butted  that  spoke  with  a  Union  star, 
That  was  tempered  well   in  the  lap  of  war. 
What  a  mighty  bond  of  peace  will  steal 
O'er  the  land  we  love,  on  the  brave  old  "wheel." 

From  the  tide  that  washes  the  "  Empire  State," 
To  the  wave  that  rolls  through  the  "  Golden  Gate," 
From  Alaska's  wilds  to  the  "  crescent  moon," 
From  the  Northland's  cape  to  the  South's  lagoon, 

Flies  the  wheelman's  summons,  that  near  and  far, 
Makes  a  union  land  'neath  a  union  star. 

And  that  union  star  o'er  the  cluster  grand, 

That  in  union  bound  forms  the  fatherland 

Is  progress,  one  hand  on  the  dome  above, 

The  other  linked  on  the  earth  with  love  ; 

( )li  !  the  wheel  will  link  in  a  long  bright  chain 
The  stars  which  divided  might  shine  in  vain. 


20  Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike. 

Let  this  song  be  sung  to  the  Northern  breeze, 
Let  its  whispers  fall  among  orange  trees, 
Breathing  ever  soft  o'er  the  cyclers'  way 
At  the  breaking  forth  or  the  close  of  day, 

Linking  heart  to  heart,  joining  hand  with  hand, 
Let  the  "  wheel "  roll  on  through  the  fatherland. 


s 


A   MORNING   RIDE. 

PEED  thee  well,  my  bicycle,  speed  thee  well,  I  say, 
Swiftly  thou  shalt  bear  me  o'er  the  traveled  way, 
Swiftly  by  the  rambling   streams, 
Where  we  watch  the  yellow  gleams 
Of   the  wavelets  leaping  bright 
From  dark  arches  into  light, 
Seeking,  like  the  ready  mind, 
In  the  darkness  light  to  find. 


Speed  thee  well,  my  bicycle,  bear  me  on,   I  say, 

Let  thy   wheel  revolving  chase  thought  of  care  away, 

Every  rustling  breeze  that  blows, 

Every  breaking  beam  that  glows, 

21 


22  Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike. 

Every  form  that  beauty  takes 

From  Dame   Nature  when  she  wakes, 

Fairy  ferns  and  forest  flowers, 

All !  my  "  wheel,"  all — all  are  ours. 

Then  away,  my  bicycle,  while  I  urge  thee  on, 
Thoughts    of    other  days  flash    by  that    have    long  since 
gone; 
Fondly  memory  backward  trends, 
And  I  see  and  hear  old  friends, 
See  them   in  the  shades  that  play 
Through  the  leafy  curtained  way, 
Hear  them  in  the  breeze  that  makes 
Monotones  through  bushy  brakes. 


NIGHT  LIGHTS. 

FAR  on  the  winding  road, 
Wavering  slow, 
What  is  that  flickering, 

Fast  flitting  glow? 
Stars  softly  showing, 
Lights  shyly  glowing. 
Through  trees  where,  blowing, 
Winds  whisper  low. 

Hark  !    on   the  soft  breathing, 

Half  broken  breeze, 
Tired  with  blowing  through 

Leaf-laden   trees, 


23 


24  Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike, 

O'er  the  woods  sleeping, 
Music  comes  creeping, 
Voices  are  keeping 
Time  to   the  breeze. 

Out  from  the  sumac  shade 

Glide  flashing  wheels, 
Twining  through  airy  spokes 

Melody  steals  ; 
Cyclers  are  singing, 
Wild  notes  ringing, 
Deep  voices  flinging  up 
Music  of  wheels. 


THE  BREEZE  OF   BRYN   MAWR. 

ONCE  as  night  was  closing  o'er  Bryn  Mawr 
And  far  in  the  western  sky, 
Farther  than  where  the  summits 

Of  the  wild  Alleghenies  lie, 
And  beyond  where  the  mighty  Ohio 

Gives  the   "  Father  of  Waters  "  her  hand, 
The  shades  of  evening  had  settled 
O'er  a  silent  and  sleeping  land. 

Eastward  a  breeze  had  been  traveling — 

Traveling  the  live-long  day — 
Till   it  found  itself  blowing  through   Bryn   Mawr, 

And   there  it  resolved  to  stay ; 

25 


26  Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike. 

For  it  said,  "Though  from  far  I  have  journeyed, 

O'er  city  and  village  and  home, 
I  find  not  a  place  like  Bryn  Mawr, 

Outstretched  'neath  the  great  blue  dome." 

This  it  whispered  the  leafy  guardians 

Who  watch  over  Bryn  Mawr  town 
From  the  heights  of  the  Chester  Valley, 

Whose  summits  their  dark  shades  crown  ; 
And  they  bowed  their  proud  heads  with  pleasure 

When  this  tribute  the  West  Wind  bore 
To  the  charms  of  the  sleeping  homesteads 

The)'  were  holding  their  night  watch  o'er. 

And  all  that  was  said  in  whispers 

To  the  ears  of  the  drowsy  trees, 
Who  stayed  for  a  few  short  moments 

The  way  of  that  Western  breeze, 
Has  been  told  and  retold  so  often. 

That  the  fame  of  this  hamlet  sweet 
Has  crept  where  the  wild  Fast  breezes 

Wait  that  Western  breeze  to   greet. 


Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike.  27 

But  at  Bryn  Mawr  this  breeze  has  tarried 

Since  then,  which  was  long  ago — 
So  long  that  it  seems  a  wonder 

That   it  long  has  not  ceased  to  blow. 
'But  it  dwells  near  the  Chester  Valley, 

That  it  may,  when  the  sun  goes  down. 
Blow  a  song  to  the  hill  of  Devon. 

And  a  whisper  through   Bryn   Mawr  town. 


A  CYCLING  YARN  TOLD  ON  LANCASTER  PIKE: 

COME,  Charlie,  wake  up,  a  song  for  your  "wheel" 
As  it  lies  on  the  grass,  while  near  it 
We  dozen  bold  cyclers  are  lounging  at  ease, 

And  waiting  and  longing  to   hear  it — 
Come,  Charlie,  wake  up,  though  we  haven't  a  cup 

To  drink  to  your  health  while  you  sing  it. 
"All  right,"  said  old  Charlie,  "  I'll  sing;  but  here,  Vic, 
Bring  your  patent  new  gong  out  and  ring  it. 

***** 

There  once  was  a  jolly  old   "wheel,"  boys, 

And   that  jolly  old  "  wheel  "  was  mine — 

What's   the  matter  with  you   and  your   gong,  Vic  ? 

You're  the  deuce  of  a  fellow  for  time ; 
28 


Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike.  29 

There  now,  that  will   do,   keep  it  up  so — 

What  I'm  going  to  tell  you  about 
Is  how   I   and  that  precious   old  "  wheel "  there 

Came  precariously  near  falling  out. 

Now  here's  just  the  way  the  thing  happened  : 

It   was  only  one  summer  ago 
That  I    got   the — well,   the  marrying  fever, 

Which  none  here  have  experienced,  I  know. 
And   where   do  you    think   that   I  got   it  ? 

Why,  down   at   the  seashore,  of  course, 
Where  with   ducking  the  girls   I'd  grown  nervous, 

And  with  whisp'ring  at   hops   I'd  grown   hoarse. 

It  was   just  at  the  close  of  the   season, 

And  friends  were  all   dropping  away, 
That   I  struck   up   an  awful   flirtation 

With  sweet  little    Miss  Jennie  Ray. 
I   tell    you    I   went   it    in  earnest, 

And    1  thought   I  was   gone,  boys,  for  sure. 
In  which  case  I'd   have  looked  like  Miss  Jennie's 

Blue   frock,  only  fifty  times  bluer. 


30  Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike. 

Her  father  was  rich  as  old  Croesus, 

That  mighty  fine  hero  of  old, 
Whose  dearest  of  earth's  many  pleasures 

Lay   in  roping  in   millions   of    gold; 
So  old  Ray  had  his  millions  of  dollars, 

In  stocks,  bonds,  and  railroads,  and  cash, 
And  the  man  who  could  wed  with   Miss  Jennie 

Would  presumably  not  be  termed  rash. 

For  Jennie  was  petted    and    pretty — 

Not  proud,  though  she'd   reason  to  be, 
That  is,  if  money's  considered, 

For  there  she  was  top-o'-the-tree — 
That's  one  thing  I   must  allow  of  her, 

She  certainly  never  was  vain, 
Though  each  dude  of  "  Atlantic  "  stared   at  her, 

As  he  chewed  up  the  end  of  his  cane. 

Well,  she  nodded   to  Jones  on  the  porch  once. 
Who  lay  half  smothered  up  in  his  rug, 

Then  she  turned  to  admire   just  one  other 
Brand  new  importation — a  pug. 


Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike.  31 

Then,  turning  to  me,  she  said  sweetly, 

In  tones  pitched  too  highly,  I  fear, 
"  I  think   that    the  wildest  creations 

From   England  now  come  over  here." 

Then  said  I  to  myself,  "  Mr.  Charlie, 

Miss  Jennie  is  wondrously  fair, 
And  of  sense  she  possesses  a  trifle, 

Though  her  father's  a  fat  millionaire." 
And  that's  how   it  all  came  about,  boys, 

And  we  started  in  earnest  at  once, 
And  bicycler  Charlie  cut  out,  boys, 

Atlantic's  sweet  dudes  for  the  nonce. 

And  we  walked  and  we  talked  and  we  flirted, 

Most  outrageously,  openly  bold, 
And  that  wretched   dude  Jones,  with  most  studied 

Contempt,  was  left  out  in  the  cold  ; 
And  things  were  all    sliding  on  smoothly, 

Hearts  getting  quite  hot,  I  could  feel, 
When  the  whole  blessed  business  was   busted 

By  that  deucedly  unlucky  "  wheel.'' 


32  Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike. 

You  see,  here  is  how  the  thing  happened  : 

I  was  speeding  along  one  dark  night, 
After  leaving  the  radiance  behind  me 

Of  Jennie's  sweet  eyes  smiling  bright; 
And  it  must  have  been  from  the  contrast 

Of  changing  their  light  for  the  dark, 
That  I  came  in  collision  with  some  one 

And  ripped  up  our  mutual  bark — 

Ripped  up  our  bark,  you  may  say  so, 

In  a  double  sense,  too,  you  can  bet, 
For  the  chap  I  ran  down  seemed  determined 

To  swear  himself   into  a  sweat ; 
And  I,  you  may  certainly  reckon, 

Felt  as  riled  as  himself  at  the  mess, 
And  since  he  seemed  disposed  to  talk  Latin, 

I,  too,  felt  like  talking,  I  guess. 

So  a  mutual  roar  of  expletives 

Was  wafted  aloft  on  the  air, 
And  I  was  a  "  d — d  public  nuisance," 

And  he  was  a  "crusty  old  bear;" 


Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike.  33 

And  I'd  be  "  consigned  to  old  Pluto," 

And  he'd  "  go  to   heaven  the  wrong   way," 

When,  "  great  Scott !"  a  gas  lamp  shone  on  him, 
And  revealed  to  me  old  Johnny  Ray. 

You  just  bet  I   caved,  and   I   mounted, 

And  "  by  George  !"  you'd  have  sworn  that  "old  Nick" 
Was  traveling  hard  on   my  hind  wheel 

With  his  toe  gathered   up  for  a  kick  ; 
For  I   left  the   old  gent  in  the   roadway, 

Swearing  hotly,  "  You   d — d   Charlie  C , 

Come  back  ;"  but   I   sloped,   for  I   knew,  boys, 

'Twas  all   up  between  Jennie  and   me. 

So  it  was,  for  next   morning  quite  early 

There  came  such  a  sweet  little  note, 
Which   told   me  that   I   and   Miss  Jennie 

Could  never  form  crew  of  one  boat ; 
And   I  tell  you    I   felt  for  a  short  while 

As   I   never  once  more  want  to  feci, 
And   I  vowed  on   the  spur  of  the   moment 

That   I'd   wreck   that   confounded   old  "  wheel." 


34  Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike. 

But  I  didn't,  and  there  she  stands  yonder, 

And,  boys,  my  advice  to  you  now 
Is,  before  you  join  hands  with  the  daughter, 

With  the  dad  have  a  scriptural  row  ; 
And  then,  if  the  girl's  worth  the  having, 

She'll  make  the  old  gentleman  keel, 
And  if  not,  why,  your  best  plan  of  action 

Is  right  about  face,  and  then  wheel. 


A   SONG   OF   LANCASTER   PIKE. 

O'ER  Lancaster's  level, 
O'er  Lancaster's  grade, 
Up  hill  and   down  hill, 

By  coppice  and  glade, 
By  woods  whence  the  light 

Of  the  recreant  day, 
Long  hours  ago 

Melted  slowly  away  : 

Cycle,  O  cycle ! 

Come  bear  me  along, 
To  where  in  sweet  Bryn  Mawr 


A  bird  sings   a  song. 


35 


5 


6  Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike. 

Let  Lancaster's  level 

Fall  fading  behind, 
Let  Lancaster's  grade 

Call  no  fears  to  the  mind  ; 
By  house  and  by  hamlet, 

By  village  and  town, 
With   a  rush  we  go  up, 

But  again  to  rush  down. 

So,  cycle,   my  cycle, 
Come  bear  me  along, 

Ere  night  shadows  sadden 
A  fair  maiden's  song. 


Old  Lancaster's  level 
Flies   fast  to  the  rear, 

Old  Lancaster's  grade 
Gives  us  never  a  care, 

While  each  Lancaster  maiden, 
As  past  her  we  fly, 


Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike.  ^y 

Throws  a  glance  of  surprise 
At  the  form  flitting  by  : 

But  cycle,  O  cycle ! 

Let  the  maidens  alone, 
For  we  have  in  Bryn  Mawr 

A  sweet  maid  of  our  own. 


ON   THE   ROAD. 

AWAY  we  go  on  our  wheels,  boys, 
As  free  as  the  roving  breeze, 
And  over  our  pathway  steals,  boys, 

The  music  of  wind-swept  trees  ; 
And  round  by  the  woods   and  over  the  hill 

Where  the  ground   so  gently  swells, 
From  a  thousand  throats  in  echoing  notes 
The  songster  melody  wells. 

Along  we  speed  o'er  the  road,  boys — 

The  road  that  we  love  so  well ; 
Those  oaks  know  the  whir  of  our  wheels,  boys, 

And  they  welcome  the  cycler's  bell ;    . 

38 


Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike.  39 

And  down  in  the  hollow  the  streamlet  flows 

In  rollicking  humor  along, 
While  flinging  its  wavelets'  cadence  up 

To  challenge  the  cyclers'  song. 

< 

Above  us  we  feel  in  the  air,  boys, 

A  spirit  that's  kin  with  ours — 
A  spirit  that  gives  to  our  life,  boys, 

The  brightest  of  earth's  best  flowers  ; 
For  the  health  and  the  strength  that  are  beauty's  own, 

That  are  stamped  with  nature's  seal, 
Are  securely  bound  and  circled  round 

In  the  spokes  of  the  flying  "  wheel." 


BRYN   MAWR   TOWN. 

ONE  night  I  went  a-riding, 
A-riding,  a-riding, 
Dimly  shone  the  stars  where  the  clouds 
Were  drifting  high  ; 
And  deep  among  the  trees 
The  trembling  summer  breeze 
Swung  the  branches  into  music  songs 
Which  sang  good-bye. 

By-and-by  I  came  a-riding, 

A-riding,  a-riding, 

Riding  down  the  roadway  right  into 

Bryn  Mawr  town, 

40 


Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike.  41 

Where  welcome  gleams  of  light 
Shone  from  many  a  window  bright ; 
And  stooping  in  the  saddle  'neath 
The  branches  bending  down, 
I  seemed  to  hear  an  echo  sons 
Which  sang  "  good-night." 

Shortly  after  I  went  riding, 

A-riding,   a-riding, 

While  a  handkerchief  flew  waving  from 

A  window-casement  high  ; 

But  the  breeze  was  fast  increasing, 

And  now,  blowing  without  ceasing, 

It  swept  away  a   gentle  song 

Which  sang  "good-bye." 


Then   I  went  a-riding, 
A-riding,  a-riding, 
Riding  right  away    from 
Pleasant  Bryn  Mawr  town ; 


42  Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike. 

Looking  back  I  saw  her  light 
Streaming  from  the  casement  height, 
And  bending  where  the  branches 
Brushed  my  helmet,  drooping  down, 
The  whistling  wind  swept  back  my  song, 
"  Good-night,  good-night." 


THE    PIKE    PUMP. 

I  J"  ERE  once  again,  our  journey  completed, 
JL      I  and  my  wheel  feel  like  taking  a  rest, 
Thirty  miles  ridden    and  three  toll-men  cheated, 

That's  a  record  I'll  chalk  down  as  one  of  my  best. 
"  Health  to  my  wheel  "   I  pledge,  and  I  drink  it, 

While  she  stands  on  her  head  by  yon  hickory  stump, 
Health  to  a  "  wheel !"  Odd  toast  you  may  think  it, 
Odder  still,  as  the  nectar's  derived  from  a  pump. 

Odd  though  it  be,  I  pledge  and  I  mean  it, 

And  non-cycling  readers  may  laugh  as  they  please. 
Perhaps    they'd    laugh    more    at    my  "wheel"    had    they 
seen  it 
As  it  stood  on  its  head  'neath  those  hickory  trees— 

43 


44  Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike. 

Stood  on  its  head,  for  certain  it  did,  sir, 
After  taking  an  awfully  buck-boardy  jump, 

While  I,  with  the  thwack  of  an  auction's  last  bid,  sir, 
Descending,  brought  mine  on  the  head  of  the  pump. 

Thirty  miles  ridden  and  three  toll-men  cheated, 

A  machine  on  its  head  with  its  wheels  in  the  air, 
A  pair  of  new  breeches  which  must  be  reseated — 

This  last  was  a  thought  which   impelled    me  to  swear. 
A  log  in  the  roadway,  a  dent  in  the  gravel, 

And  a  head  boasting  one  superfluous  bump, 
A  hole  in  a  cap,  and,  without  doubt  or  cavil, 

A  decided  imprint  on  the  head  of  a  pump. 


A    RIDE   AT   THE   CLOSE   OF   WINTER. 


THUS,  thus  do  I  leap  to  the  saddle  and  fly, 
While    the    woods    wave    their    arms    where    the 
spring  grasses  lie  ; 
E'er  enrobing  once  more  in  the  harmony  guise, 
In  which   nature,  enveloping,  smothers  their  sighs, 
Granting  to  them  instead  the  soft  whispers  that  fling 
Breathings  soft  as  the  velvet  born  leaves  of  the  spring. 

Yes  !  thus  once  again  will   my  "  wheel  "  bear  me  on, 
Each  pedal-push  bids  some    dull  trouble  begone; 
Each   turn   of  the   wheel  to   each   draw  on   the  bar 
Throws  a  thrill   of  delight  that  will   leave  lying  far 
In   the  distance  behind,  as   in  life  that's   gone  by, 
What  remembering  we  fain   would,  forgetting,  let  die. 

45 


DEVON,   FAIR     DEVON. 

COME,  cycle  !    we'll  wander  together  away 
As  free  as  the  airy  pressure 
Of  the  unseen  hand  that   boldly  plays 

Through  the  woodland's   leafy  treasure. 
We'll   roam  where,  far  in   the  western   sky, 

There  are  signs  that  the  veil  of  even 
Has,  creeping  far  from   the   city's  side, 

Dropped   down    its  dark  shade   o'er  Devon. 
O   Devon  !    fair  Devon  ! 
Shadows  may  close   over   Devon, 
But   there's   light  in   an   eye 
That's  as  deep  as  the  sky- 


When   it  smiles  its  brightest  o'er   Devon  ! 


46 


Lays  of  Lancaster  Pike.  47 

Come,  cycle !    old    Lancaster's   arm  is  outstretched 

To    the   West,  and  its   trees  are   bendimr 
Their   branches,  to   shield    us   from   tribute  which 

The   lowlands    unasked   are  sending. 
So   forward,  on  !    by  each   hill    and  dale, 

For  at  present   our  earthly  heaven 
Lies  far  away,  where   the   brave  old  pike 
Takes  a  turn   round  the   hill   of  Devon. 
O   Devon  !     fair  Devon  ! 
Dull  grows  the  sky  over  Devon, 
But  there's   light   in   an   eye 
That   is   black   as  the  sky 
On   the  darkest  of  nights   at  Devon. 


TIGHTENED    SPOKES. 

IN  my  "wheel"  there's  a  spoke  that  never  loosens, 
In   the  handle  a  bar  that    never  bends, 
And  so  tried  and  true  are  these   faithful   servants 
That  they  hold  in  my  heart  the  place  of  friends. 

There  are  spokes  in  the  wheel  of  time  that  tighten, 
That  yield   not  their  hold  as  the   years   roll   by ; 

They  are   mostly  thoughts  that  are  linked  with  the  love 
Of  the  friends  who  now  are  no    longer  nigh. 


48 


TO   J . 

,  well    I   know  that  nothing 

I   have  written  here  you'll  miss ; 

Therefore,  e'er  you  lift  another 

Leaf,  just  waste  a  thought   on   Chris. 


\9 


SONGS  of  the  SCHUYLKILL  RIVER. 


BEAUTIFUL   SCHUYLKILL.* 

BEAUTIFUL  Schuylkill, 
Pride  of  our  Park, 
River,  thou'rt  noble  still 

As  when  the  bark 
Of  the  red  Indian, 

Warrior  brave, 
Swept  its  wild  master 
Over  thy  wave. 

Beautiful   Schuylkill, 
Said  he,  with  pride, 

As  he  swept  over 

Thy  tree-shaded  tide  : 


*"In  Kairmount  Park." 


53 


54  Songs  of  the  Schuylkill  River. 

"  O'er  this,  my  country — 
My  fatherland — 
Dares  the  invader 

Stretch  his  false  hand  ?" 

Beautiful  Schuylkill, 

Beautiful  still — 
Rocky  glen,  foaming  stream, 

Forest,  and  hill ; 
Rivulet,  streamlet, 

Steal  to  thy  side, 
As  to  her  lover's  arms 

Nestles  the  bride. 


Beautiful  Schuylkill, 
O'er  thee  we  throw 

Shadows  that  nature 
Never  lets  grow  ; 

Yet  thy  fair  features 
Of  forest  and  hill, 


Songs  of  the  Schuylkill  River.  55 

All — picture  river, 
Are  beautiful  still. 

Beautiful  Schuylkill, 

Time  steals  from  thee 
Less  than  it  ever 

Can  wrestle  from  me ; 
Winter  and  summer, 

Autumn  and   spring, 
O'er  thy  broad  bosom 

Fresh  beauties  fling. 

Beautiful  Schuylkill, 

Time  will  soon  steal 
One  who  has  loved  thee, 

One  who  could  feel 
Nature's  own  hand 

Stretched  forth  ere  she  died, 
Where  man's  creations 

Marred  thy   bright  tide. 


CYCLING   BY   THE   SCHUYLKILL. 

CYCLING  in  the  even' 
When  the  sun  sinks  low, 
Cycling  through  the  twilight 

While  the  shadows  grow, 
Cycling  on  in  starlight 
Underneath  the  glow, 
That  falling  finds  a  home 
In  Schuylkill's  silent  flow. 

Tell  me  not  that  tribute 
From  the   heart,  can  find, 

Naught  to  frame  in  words 
But  what,  was  left  behind, 


56 


Songs  of  the  Schuylkill  River.  57 

By  dwellers  with  and  lovers  of 

Old  Nature  kind, 
Whose  every  virtue  by-gone  hearts 

And  pens,  have  lined. 

No,  tell  me  not  that  nothing  new 

Fair  Nature  gives, 
Say  not  that  nothing  new 

In  thought,   or  fancy  lives — 
Lives  not  to  greet  the  soul 

That  has,  for  beauty  eyes, 
Lives  not  to  furnish  yet 

The  fire,  that  never  dies. 


AN   AUTUMN   RIDE  UP   THE   WISSAHICKON. 

SEASON  of  the  sun-browned  leaf 
Merging  into  golden  hues, 
Where  the  oak  and  maple  meet 
And  their  leafy  harvest  fuse ; 
Shadow-guarded,  up  the  glen, 

See !  fair  Wissahickon's  flow, 
Bears  away  the  tribute  which 
Oak  and  maple  fling  below. 

Season  of  a  great  farewell, 

Spoken  low  in  accents  soft, 
Whispered  by  each  leaf  that  falls 

From  the  curtain  arched  aloft; 
58 


Songs  of  the  Schuylkill  River.  59 

Stretching  o'er  us  as  we  ride, 

Oak  and  maple  arches  bright, 
Sun-browned,  merging  into  gold, 

From  our  path  close  out  the  light. 

Timid  toned  and  very  soft, 

Lightly  tuned  and  very  low, 
Soft-breathed  songs  from  sunless  streams, 

Trickling  where  the  fern  leaves  grow, 
Greet  our  ear,  and  whisper  where, 

Hidden  by  the  frondine  shade, 
Wandering  waters  seek  a  home 

Through  the  path  their  songs  have  made. 

Gushing,  gasping  o'er  the  stones, 

Gurgling  round  the  green-lipped  rocks, 
Ruder  song  from   rougher  streams, 

Surly  toned,  the   quiet  mocks — 
Surly  toned  and  angry  waved, 

White  lipped,  black   browed,  bubble  crowned, 
Wilder  streams  with    wayward   will 

Fling  their  harsher  cadence  round. 


60  Songs  of  the  Schuylkill  River. 

Through  the  shadow  up  the  glen, 

Where  the  sunlight's  slanting  ray- 
Rarely  seeks  to  share  the  scene, 

With  the  rambling  breezes  play, 
Ride  we  when  the  evening  hour 

Falls  o'er  Wissahickon's  stream, 
Losing  Schuylkill  far  behind 

In  a  sun-browned  golden  dream. 


ON   THE    SCHUYLKILL. 

SCHUYLKILL  River, 
From  thy  quiver 
Launch  the  trembling  shafts  of  light  ; 
Let  thy  waves  fling,   flashing  upward, 
Kisses  caught  from  moonbeams  bright ; 
Noble   river, 
Gentle  river, 
How  I  love  thy  face  at  night. 

As  thus  rowing, 

O'er  thee   flowing, 

Swift  I  love  to  stem  thy  stream, 

How  the  oars  ever  onward 


61 


6  2  Songs  of  the  Schuylkill  River. 

Seem  to  throw,  in  fancy's  dream, 

Fairy  flashes, 

Where  their  splashes, 

Mingle  with   the   moon's  soft  beam. 

Gently  flowing, 

Nobly  glowing, 

While  yon  streak  of  silver  grows, 

Narrowed  down  to  where  the  curving 

Banks  their  shadows  interpose  ; 

Lazy  breaking, 

Waves  half  waking, 

Backward  far  our  track  inclose. 

Sleeping  never, 

Dreaming  ever, 

Yet  not  waking  fully  free, 

Thy  old  waters  have  a  charming 

And  half  mystic  claim  to  be 

Ever  giving, 

And  then  living 

In  the  thoughts  they  give  to  me. 


OAR   ECHOES. 

TOGETHER,  lads,  steady, 
The  swing  of  the  rowlock 
Has   wakened  the  ripples 
That  sleeping  lay  still ; 
And  the  dip  of  our  oars 
Has  disturbed  the  clear  image 
Flung  o'er  the  waters 
From  Strawberry  Hill. 

As  the  spray  falls  behind  us 
Fly  the  fetters  that  bind   us 
To  the  fast  fading  city 
We've   left  far  behind  ; 


63 


64  Songs  of  the  Schuylkill  River. 

There  !  our  bold  strokes  have  broken 
The  last  lingering  token, 
That  might  bind  us  to  where 
Life's  at  best  but  unkind. 

Together,  lads,  steady, 

Let  the  unity  motto 

That  pilots  our  fatherland's 

Fortunes  be  ours ; 

For  there's  far-reaching  wisdom 

In  the  words  which  are  spoken 

When  the  buds  of  experience 

Break  forth   into  flowers. 

Through  the  spray  flitting  by  us, 
Through  the  dusk  creeping  nigh  us, 
Through  the  cloud  which  yon  moon 
Has  but  now  silver-lined ; 
We  can  read  the  old  story 
Which  tells  how  life's  glory 
Lies  in  harmonized  union 
Of  body  and  mind. 


Songs  of  the  Schuylkill  River.  65 

Then  together,  lads,  steady, 
The  breath  of  the  summer 
Is  dying  o'er  woods 
That  are  losing  their  sheen; 
As  we  bend  to  our  work 
Let  us  value  the  moments, 
Which   fortune   flings  kindly 
Life's   labors  between. 

For  if  life  is  worth  living, 

'Tis  when   summer  is  giving 

The  fruits  of  a  spring 

That  can  never  return  ; 

And  the  thistledown  straying, 

Through  the  wind  o'er  us  playing, 

Leaves  behind  it  a  lesson 

The  oldest  may  learn. 


BY  THE   RIVER. 


THE  soft  wind  is  pressing 
The  breast  of  the  stream, 
Where  the  waves  are  caressing 

The  moon's  fickle  beam; 
As  slowly  I'm  riding 

Where  willow  shades  creep, 
Keeping  watch  over  waters 
That  wake  not  from  sleep. 

As  slowly  I  wander 

On  swift  noiseless  wheel, 

Of  these  haunts  I  grow  fonder 

Through  friendship's  broad  seal ; 
66 


Songs  of  the  Schuylkill  River.  6j 

And  footsteps  and  faces 

Of   comrades  and  friends, 
Fancy  oftentimes  traces 

Where  the  willow  tree  bends. 

The  breeze  has  ceased   blowing, 

From  whence  did  it  come  ? 
But  the  stream   is  still  flowing 

Away  to  its  home ; 
And  I  hear  the  soft  whispers 

Of   friends  vanished  long, 
In  the  ripples   that  singing 

Get  lost  in  their  song. 


SONG  OF  THE  PENNSYLVANIA  BICYCLE  CLUB. 

* 

GATHER,  Pennsylvania, 
Hark  the  bugle  call, 
Hear  the  dropping  echoes 

Round  us  faintly  fall  ; 
Mounting,  speed  we  onward 
While  the  shadows  dark, 
Close  in  curtained  silence 
Over  Fairmount  Park. 

Fairmount's  shadows  deepen 

As  we  speed  along, 

Hark  from  off  the  river 

Breaks  the  boatman's  song, 
68 


So?igs  of  the  Schuylkill  River.  69 

And  the  mule  bells  music 

Down  the  river  track, 
Draws  from  many  a  "Challis"* 

Answering  tinkles  back. 

Starry  world  above  us 

Looking  down  below, 
See  you  not  our  starlight 

Glancing  back  your  glow ; 
Through  the  spokes  reflecting 

Red  and  green  so  bright, 
See  our  stars  are  winking 

Back  your  watchful  light. 

Beauty  in  the  night  time 

As  there  is  in  day, 
Softer  shines  the  starlight 

Than   the  orb  of  day; 
Softer  winds  seem  blowing, 

Softer  breezes  creep, 


♦"Challis  Stop  Bell." 


•jo  Songs  of  the  Schuylkill  River. 

When  they  find  old  nature 
Nodding  off  to  sleep. 

Softly,  Pennsylvania, 

Softly  ride  and  slow, 
Noiseless  as  the  mid-stream 

Of  yon  waters  flow ; 
Now  move  fast,  and  faster, 

Yet  our  swift  steeds  make, 
Sounds  less  than  the  ripples 

On  those  banks  that  break. 

Faster,  Pennsylvania, 

Let  the  bugles  ring, 
While  the  echoing  hillsides 

Back  the  wild   notes  fling. 
River  song  and  ripple 

Greet  us  as  we  glide, 
Near  where  stars  are  dipping 

Deep  in   Schuylkill's  tide. 


THE  LAST  SONG. 


-,  though  old  Schuylkill's  praises, 


Roughly  chanted  thus  by  Chris 
You'll  forget,  yet  still  the  singer's 
Mem'ry  you  will  not  dismiss. 


7i 


BENT  OARS  AND  BROKEN  SPOKES. 


BENT  AND  BROKEN  ON  BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  ATLANTIC. 


BENT  OARS  AND  BROKEN  SPOKES. 

BENT  oars  and  broken  spokes, 
How  often  have  I  seen  them, 
How  often  found  a  lesson  of 

Our  life  bent  in  between  them  ; 
The  rose  between  two  thorns  will  grow, 

Will  even  learn  to  love  them, 
The  lesson  learned  from  broken  hopes 
Will  raise  us  oft  above  them. 

Bent  oars  and  broken  spokes, 
We  lay  them  down  with  sorrow, 

And  seek  in  something  fresh  to  find 
What  we  can  beg  or  borrow  ; 

75 


j6  Bent   Oars  and  Broken    Spokes, 

We  beg  the  health  we  cannot  buy 
From  every  breeze  that,  blowing, 

Renerves  the  friction  Time's  old  hand 
Is  never  tired  of  slowing. 

Bent  oars  and  broken  spokes, 

Who  wants  of  them  to  borrow — 
Who  looks  for  that  which  lies  but  where 

To-morrow  meets  to-morrow. 
We  seek  to  find  in  memory's  arms 

Friends  once  our  best  and  dearest, 
While  greeting  still  the  haze  that  time 

Throws  round  what  once  was  nearest. 

Bent  oars  and  broken  spokes, 

Of  thought  and  word  and  action, 
Each  twisted  thread  that  twines  through  life 

Must  lose  its  last  attraction. 
The  oar  that's  bent,  the  twisted  spoke, 

The  nature  warped  or  broken, 
Each  flung  along  life's  shore  lies  there, 

Of  life  a  rusted  token. 


A  SHADOW  HOPE. 

IN  the  clasp  of  the  hand  that  is  clinging  in  silence, 
In  the  light  of  the  eye  that  is  lost   ere   its  lash, 
Like  the  lightning's  cloud  curtain  creeps  over  the  heaven 
From  whose  bosom   'twould  seem    the  bright  energies 
flash  ; 
Dwells    assurance    which    bids    me    hope   on    though    the 
hoping, 
May  live  like  the  cloud  that  is  fated  to  be, 
Swept  afar  from   its   friends  by  that  fate  which  the  future 
May  fling  round  this  heart  that  feels  love  but  for  thee. 
Yes,  that    clasp    tells    me    more    than   the  thought  flashes 
leaping, 
From  the  eye  that  reluctant  is  forced  to  reveal. 

77 


78  Bent   Oars   and  Broken   Spokes. 

The  slumbering  power  of  the  passion  that  proves  how 
The  heart  fails  to  hold  all  it  ever  can  feel ; 

I  dare  not  say  more,  I  shall  never,  can  never, 
Feel  love  for  another  that  as  equal  with  thee, 

Will  live  on  in  this  heart  which  though  never  forgetting 
The  past,  will  forgive  you  what  yet  has  to  be. 


ROLL   on,   my   Cycle !    Life   is   what 
Its    children    choose   to   make    it; 
And   pleasure   comes   to   all   alike 
Who   reach   a  hand   to   take   it. 


SOUVENIR. 

CYCLE!    Cycle!    trusty  Cycle! 
How  I  dearly  love  thee, 
Flashing,  glancing  out  as   bright 

As  any  star  above  me ; 
Far  away,  and  farther,  farther, 

You  will  bear  me  fast, 
Till  receding  Boston's  turmoil 
Dies  away  at  last. 

Cycle  !    Cycle  !    my  own  Cycle  ! 

You  and  I  are  flying 
Faster  than  those  city  echoes 

Far  behind  us  dying  ; 

79 


80  Bent   Oars   and  Broken   Spokes. 

Then  away  and  over  hillside, 

Climbing  like  a  feather, 
Or,  as  lightning  rushing  downward, 

Ride  we  on  together. 

Cycle!    Cycle!    we  have  wandered 

Many  a  mile  together, 
We  have  tasted  summer  sunshine, 

Storm  and  winter  weather, 
And  I  think  as  through  the  starlight 

Slowly  now  we  glide, 
Through  our  spokes  north  winds  have  whistled, 

Western  winds  have  sighed, 
Now  where  Boston's  breeze  is  blowing, 

England's  breezes  died. 


A    RIVER    DREAM. 

* 

LET  the  oar  rest  ere  again  it  revels 
In  the  breast  of  the  stream  that  in  darkness  lies, 
A  type  of  the  thought   that  remains  unspoken 

In  the  liquid  depths  of  that  sweet  girl's  eyes  ; 
Her  hand  droops  down  where  the  wavelet's  ripple 

Creeps  up  to  caress  what   I  fain  would  hold, 
But  I  never  can,  for  the  wave's  soft  lapping 
Scarce  hides  on  one  finger  a  band  of  gold. 

Let  the  oar  strike  on  the  sleeping  water, 
Let  the  eyelash  cover  the  tell-tale  light, 

Which  I  feel   creeps  up  with  unbidden  fervor 

From  a  fire  that  burns  with   a   flame  too  bright  ; 

Let  the  oar  bend,  let  the  thought  bend  with  it, 
Let  it,  bending,  break  through  that  passing  wave  ; 

Let  the  thought  break  through  a  brief  dream  that  dyiner, 

Can   forever  keep  what   it   never  gave. 

Si 


FRIENDSHIP'S    INFLUENCE. 


TELL  me  what  tributes  of  friendship 
Are  cherished  the  closest  by  you, 
Tell  me  what  virtues  stand  highest 

In  thine  eyes,  be  they  many  or  few ; 
For  be  they   as  many  and  royal 

As  man  ever  held  or  can  hold, 
It  shall  be  my  life's   labor  to  win  them, 
They  shall  be  to  me  silver  and  gold. 

Knowledge   may  kneel  to  the  simple, 
May  seek  him  while  being  unsought, 

Honor  may  come  to  the   careless, 
Both  may  in  a  measure  be  bought ; 

But  virtue  asks  never  a  master, 

Though  vice  may  seek  many  a   slave, 

Yet  she  answers  when  called,  as  the  bravest 

May  often  be  led  by  the  brave. 
82 


"GOOD-BYE,  ROB." 

A  LAV  OF  A  LONDON  HOSPITAL. 

1MISS  them,  Rob,  I  miss  them, 
Those  fields  of  sunny   green; 
The  two  soft,  mossy,  shelving  banks 
And  the  running  stream  between  ; 
I  see  no  more  the  wind-wave  sweep 

Across  the  fields  of  grain, 
And  the  summer  breeze   'mid  summer  trees, 
I   will  never   hear  again. 

I  see  them  not,  I  hear  them  not, 
Those  old  time   friends  of  mine, 

Who  sang  to  me,   as  I  to   them, 
Full   oft  and   many  a  time; 

S3 


84  Bent    Oars   and  Broken   Spokes. 

For,  went  I  fast,  or  went  I   far, 
On  horseback,  foot,  or  "wheel," 

The  cadence  fresh  from  feathered  throats 
Would  o'er  my  pathway  steal. 

I  see  no  more  the  springing  flowers, 

Which   I   have  marked  so  oft, 
Wake  to  new  life,  when   summer  blew 

Her  whispering   breezes   soft ; 
I   hear   no  more,  through    whirling  spokes, 

Those  soft  winds   swiftly  play  ; 
Far  as  they  now  are  from  me,  soon 

They'll  farther  be  away. 

Reach  me  your  hand,  old  friend,  and  let 

Me  say  good-bye  once   more; 
I'm  riding  now,  it  seems    to  me, 

Along  a  misty  shore ; 
It's  growing  narrow,  shelving  down  ; 

Rob  !    bring  your  lantern   near, 
Rob — say,   Rob — when   you   ride   this   road, 

Keep  your  flame  burning  clear. 


Bent    Oars   and  Broken    Spokes.  85 

It's  very  dark,  yes !  and  it's  cold, 

It's  growing  cold  I  feel ; 
I  seem  to  grasp  these  handles  hard, 

They  hold  like   frozen  steel. 
Ha!   Rob,  old  man,  I  see  the   light, 

It's  burning  bright  and   clear ; 
Your  hand,  old  friend,  we'll   meet  again 

On  a  better  road  than's  here. 


I    CANNOT    FORGET. 

YOU  tell  me  the  day  and  the  hour  has  gone  by 
When  that  hand  and  that  heart  could  convey  one 
reply, 
To  the  story  of  love  from  a  heart  like  to  thine, 
Which  you  say  never  was  and  can  never  be  mine. 
Yet  I  say,  though  I  cannot,  can  never  tell  why, 
Life  lives  but  for  me  in  a  glance  from  thine  eye. 

The  heart  that  has  known  what  the  lips  fail  to  tell 
Can  never  while  mem'ry  remains  say  farewell, 
The  hand  that  has  labored  to  gain  and  then  lost 
Its  reward,  may  forget  what  that  labor  once  cost, 

But   remembrance  of  that  which  was  loved  will  live 
on 

In  the  face  of  the  fate  which  forbade  its  being  won. 
86 


MEMORIES. 

WHEN  my  "  wheel's"  at  rest  and  my  oar  is  sleeping, 
The  measured  pause  of  the  pulse  will  tell, 
That  the  minute  strokes  of  thought  are  turning 
The  windlass  handle  o'er  memory's  well. 

And  the  lever  turns  with  a  slow,  slow  motion, 

And  deep  through  the  gloom  the  chain  drops  down  ; 

And  the  hand  grows  tired,  and  the  heart  grows  weary 
Ere  the  kiss  of  the   waters  its  mission  crown. 

(  )i"  it  turns  and  turns,  as  the  grasp  of  the  guiding, 

Controlling  hand  that  at  first  laid  hold 
Is  removed,  till   the  rush  of  the  falling  vessel 

Is  checked  by  the  clasp  of  the  waters  cold. 

87 


88  Bent   Oars   and  Broken   Spokes. 

And  whether  I  turn  with  a  slow,  slow  motion, 
Or  whether  I   let  the  thought  links  run 

As  they  will,   I   still  hear  the  same  old   cadence 
Come   stealing  up  when  the  goal   is  won. 

And  the  refrain  sang  by  the  chain  links  chafing 
And  fretting  sore,  o'er  their  roller  bed, 

Brings  home  to  my  heart  a  harvest  gleaning 
Of  joy  and  sorrow  which  I  thought  lay  dead. 


AIR   WHEELS. 

SOFT  and  still,  valley  and  hill, 
Melt  in  the  evening  shadow, 
Away  behind  the  western  wind 

Creeps  across  the  meadow; 
We'll  leave  it  far  behind,  boys, 

The  roads  are  smooth  and  fair, 
O'er  hill  and  hollow  the  breeze  may  follow, 
Follow,  follow — air. 

Far  away",  breaking  its  way 

Out  from  its  tunnel  quiver, 

The  railroad  steed  with  arrowy  speed 

Sweeps  by  the  quiet   river; 

89 


90  Bent   Oars   and  Broken   Spokes. 

It  leaves  us  far  behind,  boys, 

We  straggle  away  in  the  rear, 
Let  it  go !  let  it  go  !  to  beat  it,  you  know, 

Our  steeds  should  be  made  of — air. 

Loud  then  soft,  struggling  aloft, 

Over  the  trees  and  bushes, 
The  silver  notes  of  the  bugle  float 

Then  fall  among  river  rushes  ; 
That  means  we're  near  our  goal,  boys, 

And  friends  are  waiting  there, 
Press  hard  on  your  wheel,  how  the  wind  and  the 
steel 

Make  a  rushing  of  air  through  air. 


ONCE    AGAIN. 

ROUSE  thee,  my  "  wheel!"  for  the  winter  has  wended 
Its  way  to  the  bourne  whence  no  traveler  returns  ; 
The  first  breeze  of  spring  with  its  last  breeze  has  blended, 
And  sung  the  "  Amen  "  which  each   season  it  learns. 

Rouse  thee,  my  "wheel!"  for  the  sunlight  has  beckoned, 
From  where  the  red  orb  rises  over  yon  hill  ; 

Rising  earlier  still  as  each  morning  re-wakens 

Its  watch  which  through  winter  woke  cloudy  and  still. 

Rouse  thee,  my  "  wheel !"  for  the  notes  of  the  song  birds 
Come  wafted  across  from  the  fresh  budding  trees, 

And  the  swell  of  their  cadence    makes  melody  snatches 
Of  music,   which  even  friend  Orpheus  might  please. 

Rouse  thee,  my  "  wheel  !"   for  the  hues  that  have  mantled 

The  light  lying  clouds  of   the  morning  must  find 
In  the  cheek   of   thy  master  tints  such  as  shall    rival 

The  flush  on  their  own  which   the   sun  god  has  lined. 

91 


TO   ANNIE 


SITTING  idly  in  your  chair, 
Sitting  idly  fretting, 
Lost  to  friendship's  fond  rebuke, 
Life  and  love   forgetting  ; 
Annie,  tell  me  why  so  sad 
When  all  else  on  earth  is  glad. 

Can  the  path  of  life  be  rough 

To  so  fair  a  creature, 
Can  the  world  to  thee  be  aught 
But  a  gentle  teacher? 

Annie,  dearest,  tell  me  why 
Sadness  should  not  pass  thee  by. 
9.2 


Bent   Oars   and  Broken    Spokes.  93 

Living  in  the  lap  of   ease, 

Friends  flung  freely  round  thee, 
Sorrow's  hand  should   surely  be 
Withered  e'er  it  found  thee ; 

Why  does  sadness  dwell  with  thee 
Let  it  choose  its  friend  in  me. 


Then  the  case  is  as  I  thought, 

This  is  then  the  reason, 
This  is  why  thy  face  so  fair 
To  thy  heart  plays  treason ; 
Fairest  face  will  soonest  show 
What  sleeps  in  the  heart  below. 

Years  ago  I  told  thee  how 

Brave  hearts  would  be  broken, 
By  your  words  which  oft  had  been 
Better  left  unspoken ; 

Hearts  were  given  men  to  be 

More  than  playthings  meant  for  thee. 


94  Bent   Oars   and  Broken   Spokes. 

Yes  !  I  thought  so  ! — now  at  last ! 

— And  you  really  loved  him, 
Idle  words   in  cruel  jest 

Now  have  far   removed  him  ; 
Annie,  dearest,  bear  in  mind 
Life  is  love,  and  love  is   kind. 


TOM  MOORE'S  COTTAGE. 

AT  THE  "  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS,"  IRELAND. 

THROUGH  the  depth  of  the  valley  the  sunlight 
Was  streaming  in  lingering  love, 
As  if  loath  to   be  leaving  a  landscape 

That  must  have  dropped  down  from   above; 
A  landscape  where  lost  in  day  dreaming, 

All  nature  seems  eager  to  pour 
In  the   rightly  tuned  ear  of  the  stranger 
The  song   which   she  sang  to   Tom   Moore. 

We   flung  our  machines  'neath   the  shadow 

Of  the  lord   of  the  forest  who  hung 
Its  far-reaching  form  o'er  the  cottage 

Where  the  choicest  of  sonars  once  were  sung": 

95 


g6  Bent   Oars   and  Broken   Spokes. 

And  we  wondered  what  stories  its  branches 
Could  tell   if  they   only  knew  how, 

— Then  we  gazed  on   the  quaint  old-time  cottage 
And  thought  on  the  then  and  the  now. 

And  we  hung  o'er  the  rock-fettered  water, 

And  we  harked  to  the  sighing  of  wind 
Through  the  giant-like  limbs  of  the  elms 

Which    the  close-clinging  ivy  entwined ; 
And  we  gazed  on  the  waves  that  had  wakened 

The  silver-tuned  lyre  of  Tom  Moore. 
Where  for  us  they  were  meeting  and  mingling 

As  they  met  for  the  minstrel  of  yore. 


NIAGARA. 

A  MEMORY  OF  THE  L.  A.  W.  MEET,   1SS5. 

NIAGARA!   Niagara! 
The  voice  of  thy  waters 
Hoarsely  confiding  their  story  to  me ; 
Here  as  I   ride   round 
The   shore  of  this   island 

Echoes  thv  voice  like  a  song  from  the  sea. 
Years,  many  years,  have  rolled  by  since  I   listened 
To  that  cadence  recalled  by  the  song  sung  by  thee. 

Oft  have  I  ridden  when  breakers  were  rolling 
High   o'er  the   rocks  that  with  iron  band 

Circle  the  shore  of  the  country  where  fortune 
Flung  me  afar  from   my   own   western   land. 

97 


98  Bent    Oars   and  Broken   Spokes. 

Niagara !  Niagara  ! 

I  have  dreamed  that   I   heard   thee, 

In   dreams  have   I   gazed  on  thy  wild  rushing  leap. 
In  dreams  have   I   wondered  if  while   I   was   absent 

The  thunder  riven  song  of  thy  waters  would  sleep. 

And  now  I  have  heard  thee, 
Have  heard  thee  and  seen  thee : 

I  have   listened  in   silence  as  slowly  I   rode 
O'er    the  pilgrimage   pathway    that    winds    round    this 
island 

By  which  through   the  ages  thy  eddies  have  flowed. 
I    have    waited    and    watched    for    the    moment    when 
voicing 

The  hope  of  long   years  and  the  dream   of  a  life, 
I  should   look  on  the  rush   and  the  roar  of  thy  rapids, 

And  list  to  the  song  of  thy  rock  fretted  strife. 


TWO    SONGSTERS    OF   TWO    LANDS. 

SINGER  sweet  of  many  songs, 
Whose  unwritten   sweetness 
Gives  to  thee  our  song-land  realm 

In  its  full   completeness  ; 
Pen  or  pencil  fail  to  tell 
All  thy  tuneful   graces, 
Yet,   there's  one  sweet  song  which  yields 
Not    to  thine  embraces. 

Singer  sweet  of  England's  shore, 

Whose  delight    is  flinjjin"- 
Wild  notes   to  the  night  that  lives, 

But  to  hear  thy  singing  ; 
Singer  sweet,  thy  song  to  me 

Soars  beyond  each  measure, 
Which  our  mocker  flings  so  free 

At  his  fickle  pleasure. 

99 


SONG    OF    ITALIAN    SAILOR    ON   BOARD    THE 

GUIDO,   1879. 


H 


O !  for  the  blue  Tyrhennian  Sea, 
Ho !  for  my  own  sweet  Italy, 
Man  the  crew  by  the  capstan  bar, 
Furl  the  sail  on  each  trembling  spar, 
Hark  to  the  strain  that  breaks  afar, 
Music    of    Italy. 

Sweet  as  the  song  that  breathes  of  heaven, 
Singing  of  love   on  the  air  of  even, 
Light  as  the  foam  and  soft  as  the  sigh 
Of  the  waves  on  thy  shore,  O  Italy  ! 
100 


Bent   Oars   and  Broken   Spokes.  101 

Then  man  the  crew  by  the  capstan   bar, 
Furl  the  sail  on  each  trembling  spar, 
Hark   to  the  strain  that  breaks  afar, 
Music  of  Italy. 

Music  .of  music  the  wide  world  o'er, 
Greets  my  ear  from   my  native  shore, 
Stealing  aloft  to  the  dreamy  sky, 
That  smiles  o'er   my  own  sweet  Italy. 
Then   man   the   crew  by  the   capstan  bar, 
Furl  the  sail   on  each   trembling  spar, 

Wake !   wake  !    again,  my  old  guitar 
To  music  of  Italy. 


MEMORY   ARCHES. 

I    BELIEVE  it  is  true,  I   have  heard  it  said  often 
That  love  cannot  live  when   it  once  has  grown  cold; 
And  that  life  worth   the  living  coins  memory  arches, 
Whose   keystones    are    thoughts    which    can    never   be 
told. 

I've    heard    thee    say  often,  should    the    world    presume 
coldly 
To  trample  on  feelings    it  never  could  know ; 
That    the    knowledge  would    cheer    thee    that    the    truth 
could  be  only 
Revealed  to  this  heart  whence   like  sentiments  flow. 

I02 


Bent  Oars   and  Broken    Spokes.  103 

The  world  will   grow  older,  the  world   will  grow  wiser, 
It  will  widen,  and  broaden,  and  burst  its   old  bands ; 
It  will   sweep    from  their    niches   and  will    never    restore 
them, 
Works  which    once   were    the   triumphs   of   hearts    and 
of  hands. 

But  deep  in   their    dwelling,  which  far  back   through   the 
ages, 

And  on  through  the   arch    of  eternity's  span ; 
Were  ever — will  ever  be  the  thoughts   which    unspoken, 

Yet  fashion   the  life  worth   the  living  by  man. 


SING    ME    A    SONG. 


T 


HE  night  to  the  morning 


Once  sullenly  said, 
"  Why  risest  so  soon 

From  thy   orient  bed; 
Cannot    I  with  the  wealth 

Of  a  star  lighted  sky, 
Give  to   earth  all  the   light 

That  owes   life  to  thine  eye  ?" 

Said   the  morn   to  the  night, 

"  Farewell,  my  dark   maid, 

The  earth  has  been  loved 

Long  enough  by  thy  shade ; 
104 


Bent   Oars   and  Broken    Spokes.  105 

The  love  of  a  night 

May  be   lost  in  a  day, 
But  the   love  born   of   light 

Will  live  on  for  alway." 

The  tenderest  tribute 

The  heart   can   e'er  give, 
If  we  wish  that  it  blossom, 

And  blossoming  live, 
Must  bear  not  alone 

Look  of  star   searching  eye, 
But  must   stand  the  bright  test 

Of  the  sun  lighted  sky. 


TO  HELEN 


AND  she  is  dead 
Whom  I  remember, 
Kind  were  her  words 

As  her  heart  was  tender ; 
Loving  as  light 

Which  distinction  knows  not. 
Sweet  as  the  flower 

That  the  florist  sows  not. 

Tell  it  again, 

For  I  now  may  never 

Look  on  the  face 

That  has  left  forever 
1 06 


Bent   Oars   and  Broken   Spokes.  107 

Haunts  that  were  happy 

When  hearts  beat  lightest, 
Scenes  whose  soft  beauty 

On   her  smiled  brightest. 

That  is  enough, 

Braving  all  clanger, 
In  a   strange  land 

Dying  a  stranger. 
Lady,  thy  lot 

Was  a  strong  man's  measure, 
Earth  loses  what 

Heaven  gains — a  treasure. 


QUERY. 

HEART  of  woman,  head  of  man, 
Read  them  right  who  will  and  can ; 
Life-long  study  to  the  wise, 
Half  of  which  the  cynic  flies, 
Which  can  win  and  which  can  wear  ? 
Gems  which  each  should  guard  with  care. 

Which  can  win  and  which  can  wear? 
Which  can  from  the  other  tear  ? 
All  that's  cast  in  beauty's  mold, 
All  that  lives  and  dies  for  gold, 
Head  hurls  with   unerring  hand, 

Darts,  the  heart  cannot  withstand. 

108 


Bent  Oars  and  Broken  Spokes.  109 

Heart  of  woman,  head  of  man, 
Covers  which  the  widest  span  ? 
Captures  which  the  surest  prize? 
Watchest  which  with  subtlest  eyes  ? 
Hearts  will  break,  where  heads  will  bend, 
Live  man's  hopes,  where  woman's  end. 


WRITTEN   ON   THE   BACK   OF   A   BIRTHDAY 

CARD. 

SEE  the  wash  of  the  waters  that  roll  o'er  our  life 
Sweep  over  one  barrier   more, 
One  rock  in  the   rampart  now  yields  mid  the   strife 
Cut  deep   in  the  next  on   the  shore. 


TRIFLES. 

HIS  was  a  faded  blossom, 
Dropping  its  soft  slight  head, 
Close  to  a  pale  leaf  lying 
Over  some  petals  dead. 

Hers  was  a  memory  blossom, 
Blooming  again  once  more; 

Born  of  a  wave  of  music 
Blowing  along  the  shore. 

His  was  a  fair  face  smiling 

Over  the  flower  again  ; 
Hers  was  a  deep  voice  singing 

Words  of  a  magic  strain. 


no 


Bent  Oars  and  Broken  Spokes.  1 1 1 

But  soon  the  fading  flower 

Lay  with  the  lifeless  leaf, 
And  the  memory  wave  of  music 

In  a  sea  wave  lost  its  grief. 


THERE'S  a  steed  whose  hoofs  require  no  care 
From  the  worker  'neath  spreading  chestnut  trees, 
There's  a  ship  that  safer  its  freight  will  bear 

Than  the  famous  sailer  of  silent  seas  ; 
There's  a  bird  that  soars  through  the  trembling  air 

With  surer  flight  than  the  one  that  flees 
From  the   hawk's   fell  swoop,  and  the  'cycle   fair 
Has  coaxed  from  my  pen  such   lines  as  these. 


THE  BROKEN  AXLE. 

NO  light  can  enlighten 
The  heart  that  is  broken, 
No  hope  can  re-waken 

The  soul  that  is  dead  ; 
And  the  lips  do  not  speak 

Words  that  by  the  looks  spoken 
Reveal  all  and  more 
Than  can  ever  be  said. 

There's  light  on  the  hillside, 

And  shade  in  the  valley, 
There's  a  smile  in  the   river 

As  there's  death  if  you  choose ; 
So  there's  lisjht  on  the  forehead 

Though  the  heart  holds  a  shadow 
Which  though  mourning,  it  still 

Will  reluctlantly  lose. 


112 


MY   FRIEND'S   BABY. 

BABY  Leoni,  so  curly  and  coaxing, 
The  light  of  thine  eye  and  the  lisp  of  thy  tongue 
Have  led   me  to  think  of  the  moments  when  like  thee 
I   recked  not  of  blessings  born  but  for  the  young. 
But,  Leoni,  my  darling,  the  time's   creeping  on 
When   that  light  will  be  dimmed,  and  that  lisp   will 
be  gone. 

May  the  heav'n  that  smiles  on  thee  now  at  thy  waking, 

Cast  round  thee  the   guardianship  folds  of  a  love, 
Which  a  tear   from  thine  eye,  or  a  sigh  from  thy  bosom, 
Would   demand    from    the    eyes  we    trust    watch    from 
above. 
O  Leoni,  Leoni,  may   life   for  thee  find 
Not  a  sorrow  to   leave  e'en  a  shadow  behind. 

IT3 


TO  . 

TELL  me  not  of  them, 
The  days  are  gone  by, 
When  glances  fell  soft 

From  thy   dark   shaded  eye ; 
That  day   has   departed 

When   fate   could   not  find 
On  thy   forehead  a  frown 
That  in   earnest  was  lined. 

Tell  me  not  of  them, 

The  words  which  you   said, 

Their  music  soon   melted 

Into  echoes  now   dead  ; 
114 


Bent  Oars  and  Broken  Spokes.  1 1 5 

And  never,   O  never 

Can  sympathy  steal 
One  sigh   for  the  sorrow 

Which  you  dare  not  reveal. 

Tell  me  not  of  them, 

The  songs  which  you  sang, 
I  shall   spurn  the  last  tones 

From  my  heart  where  they  hang 
Like   the   last   leaves   of  autumn, 

Which   lingering  cling, 
To  the  branch   that  forgetting, 

Hopes   not   for  the   spring. 


WESTWARD,  HO  ! 


THE  red  sun  is  sinking  and  flinging  to  me 
Strange  shadows  from  over  the  storm-beaten  sea, 
As  the  last  gleams  of  light  strike  the  swaying  cross-tree. 
Whence  I  gaze  on  the  wild  scud  flying. 

Behind  us  the  shadows  creep  after  our  bark, 
The  daylight  of  Eastern  skies  dies  into  dark, 
There  !    a  wave  of  wind-music  comes  sweeping,  and  hark  ! 
It  sets  our  slack  cordage  sighing. 

The  red  sun  has  sunk  out  of  sight,  and  the  spray 

Dashes  wild  o'er  our  bows  as  we  drive  on   our  way, 

Striving  madly  it  seems — as  we  strive — day  by  day, 

To  capture  the  sunlight  dying. 
116 


AN  AFTERNOON  RIDE. 

THE  swallows  are  sweeping  o'er  meadow  and  lea, 
The  woodpecker's  bill  shakes  a  song  from  the  tree, 
There's  a  breeze  on  the  land  blowing  in  from  the  sea 
And  I  and  my  wheel  are  flying. 

There's  a  gleam  on  the  waters  a  sail  flashing  white, 
There's  a  wash  on  the   rocks  and   a  sparkling  of  light, 
And  the  foam  flakes  are  falling  in  crystalline  flight, 
Where  I  and  my  wheel  are  lying. 

The  foam  flakes  are  flying  away  behind, 
The  swallows  are  circling  against  the  wind, 
There's  a  glow  on  the  clouds  where   crimson  lined 
They  smother  the  sunlight  dying. 

117 


ADIEU. 

I    ASK  for  you  the  brightest  smiles 
That  life  and  love  can  give ; 
I  ask  from  you  but  one  small  word 

To  bid  one  memory  live ; 
I  cannot  tell  thee  e'er  in  words 

The  mem'ries  lying  deep 
Within  this  heart,  which,  true  till  death. 
Will  one  dear  secret  keep. 

Heart  beats  to  heart,  and  life  to  life. 

O  that  the  frenzied  dream, 
Which  mocked  us  both,  by  act  or  word 

Or  thought,  I  could  redeem  ; 
I  cannot,  perhaps    I   dare  not  hope 

That  fate  will  yet   retwine, 

Beyond  death's  stream  the  one  bright  strand 

That  links  this  life  with  thine. 
118 


FRIENDSHIP. 

WHEN  memory  steals  upon  fancy 
And  claims,  like  a  dear  old   friend, 
That  the  past  with   its  lights  and   its  shadows 

With  the  future  should  sometimes  blend, 
Then  at  moments  like  these  when  gazing 

With  fancy  on  some  fair  scene 
I'll  turn  to  my  old  friend  memory 
And  think  upon  what  has  been. 

And  if  in  those  years  gone  over, 

And  through  the  long  years  to  come, 

— The  past  that  still  speaks  so  sweetly 
— The  future  that  yet  is  dumb  : 

At  the  end,   if  I   find  I  have  touched  not 
A  few  of  the  silver   keys 

Of  friendship,  my  years  have  passed  over 

As  shadows  o'er  sunlit  seas. 

119 


RECREATION. 

SOFT  whispering  word  to  weary  hearts  addrest, 
How  sweet  thy  music  can  those  hearts  attest, 
How  blest  the  prospect,  how  endeared  the  hour 
Which  welcomes  thee  of  toil  the  brightest  flower, 
When  the  worn  heart  and  weary  mind  once  more 
Seek  in  thy  flowing  stream  a  bounteous  store 
Of  the  bright  thoughts  they  cherish,   hopes  they  feel, 
And  which  thy  presence   can  alone   reveal. 
Can  startle  from  the  daily  toil  and  strife 
The  heart  that  beats,  the  soul   that  gilds  the  life, 
Which  in  the  weary  breast  would  drooping  lie 
By  the  stern  will  of  labor  doomed  to  die. 
But  thy  bright  cheering  presence  once  again 

Renews  the  drooping  spirit,  soothes  the  pain, 
1 20 


Befit   Oars   and  Broken   Spokes.  121 

Wafts  us  fresh  life,  sustains  the  weary  soul, 

And  from  a  remnant  recreates  a  whole. 

Brightest  of  earth's  best  flowers  that  come  to  me, 

At  times,  when  though  the  world  has  grown  to  be 

Less  than  it  ever  seemed   to  be  before, 

Yet  still  not  paled   enough  to  close  the  door 

Of  pleasure  quite — comes  thy  soft  touch,  and  gentle  way 

Of  changing  cares  to  joy,   as  droops  the  day 

Into  the  arms  of  even',  with  lightest  touch 

Slanting  its  shadows,  while  we  marvel  much 

That  the  dark   curtains  though  they  herald  rest 

We  welcome  not,  as  nature's  great  bequest. 

Brightest  of  toil's  few  children,  formed  to  be, 

Though  last  born,  laden  with  best  fruit  for  me. 


GIVE   ME  ALL 


L 


IFE  cannot, 
Give  ever, 
All  that 

The  heart  will  crave; 
Love  cannot, 

Hold  ever, 
Half  what 

It  owes  the  grave ; 
E'en  though  that 

Half  slumber, 
Deep,  in 

A  memory  wave. 

122 


BY  THE   STREAM. 

TELL  me  truly 
While  we  ride, 
Close  this  babbling  stream  beside, 
If  the  words  you   speak  to  me 
Are  not  merely  meant  to   be 
Little   more   than  bubbles  breaking 
Knowing  naught  of  constancy ; 
Little  more  than  loose  leaves  shaking1 
At  the  straying  breeze  that  free, 
Whispers  low  to  every  tree. 

So!    you're  silent;  then  I  see 
Just  how  much  you  value  me. 


,23 


YOUR   AUTOGRAPH,  PLEASE. 

FRIENDSHIP'S  chain  fate  often   fashions 
In  the  lao  of  chance  and  flings 
Lights  and  shadows  of  life's  passions 

Into  all  its  golden  rings. 
And  perhaps  this  thought  here  written, 

In  some  far-off  future  time 
Will  recall  the  eve  its  author 
Roughly  threw  it  into  rhyme. 


124 


OAR   BEND   THE   LAST. 


spokes  and  oars   are  bending, 

Dust  is  flying,  bubbles  hiss, 
O'er  the  stream  of  life  that  hurries 

You  along  as  well  as  Chris; 
Therefore,  dear,  I  will  allow,  that 

In  some  things  I've  been  remiss. 


"5 


CYCLING  BAB  BALLADS. 


A  LAY  OF  A  RACE. 

A   RACE  for  a  ribbon  a  race  for  a  bow, — 
Five  men  are  in  line,  and  away  they  go. 
Now,  while  they  go  rushing  and  tearing  along, 
With  the  flashing  spokes  singing  the  racers'  loved  song, 
Just  listen,  I'll  tell  you  the  reason,  old  son, 
Why  a  blue  ribbon  beckons  those  bold  riders  on 

You  see  that  brown  jersey  right  there  by  the  tent, 
'Neath  that  white  ostrich  feather  so  gracefully  bent, 

That's  Annie,  the  queen  of  the  day, — 

See!  she's  shaking  the  ribbon  this  way. 

You  know  her  ?  you   lucky  old  "  son  of  a  gun  !" 

She's  the  jolliest  girl,  and   I   for  one 

Will  swear  she's  the  handsomest — Robinson  does — under 

the  sun, 

And  she's  to  present  the  blue  ribbon. 

129 


130  Cycling  Bab  Ballads. 

The   ribbon  you  see  is  our  annual  prize  : 

One  mile  is  the  distance — how  Robinson  flies  ! 
And  the  winner  receives  the  ribbon,  you  know, 
From  the  queen  of  the  day,  whom  you  also  must  know 

Is  the  prettiest  girl   in  town  ; 

At  least  on  the  present  occasion  she  is — 

Ha!  there's   Robinson  in,  and  the  ribbon  is  his, 

See  !   Annie  is  bending  down  ; 

She  pins  the  ribbon — "  by  George  "  she  is 

A  queen,  though  she  wears  no  crown. 


FORTUNE'S  like  the  bicycle, 
She  sometimes  throws  her  rider, 
And   laughing   asks   him  why  on   earth 

So  trustfully   he  tried    her ; 
Then   winking,   laughs   again   to   hear 
Him   say,  no  more  he'll   ride  her. 


LANCASTER  PIKE. 

(The  only  good  road  at  the  time  of  writing  in  the  vicinity  of  Philadelphia.) 

OH  !   of  every  conceivable  road  for  a  bike 
Outstretched  anywhere  in  creation, 
Not  one  of  the  lot  can  beat  Lancaster  Pike, 

In  fact,  or  imagination  ; 
Folks  not  in  the  secret  may  wonder  at  this, 

Hut    I   tell  you   it's  true  to  the  letter, 
When   it's  good,  why   it's  ever  the  essence  of  grand, 
When  it's  bad,  why  there's  nothing  that's  better. 

Oh  !   of  every  conceivable  road  for  a  trike 
That  you've  known  of  or  read  of  in   story, 

Not  one  can  compare  with  old   Lancaster   Pike, 
It  stands  quite  alone  in  its  glory. 

I31 


132  Cycling  Bab  Ballads. 

We  have  hundreds  of  miles  of  most  beautiful  streets, 
Paved  with  rocks,  but  that's  nothing  to  speak   of, 

For  the  boys  are  all  right,  while  we  give  'em  the  "  Pike," 
Which  there's  only  a  twenty  mile  streak  of. 

Oh  !    I've  already  said  we  have  hundreds  of  miles 

Of  streets,  which  the  world  cannot  equal, 
But  the  dickens  a  one  can  compare  with  the  "  Pike," 

As  you'll  say  when  I  tell  you  the  sequel. 
For  of  every  conceivable  road  for  a  ride, 

In  this  great  and  most  civilized  city, 
Not  one  can  compare  with  the  Pike,  for  you  see 

There's  no  other,  and  so  ends  this  ditty. 


A    FIRST    RIDE. 

TIMOTHY  JACKSON'S  a  friend  of  mine, 
A  fellow  that's  hard  to   beat, 
He's  catcher,  and  pitcher,  and    bat  of  his  nine, 
And  he  rows  like  a  steamboat  that's  running  on  time, 
And  to  see  him   eat  cream  is  a  treat. 

But  there's  one  thing  that  Timothy  tried  in  vain, 

And  that  was  to  mount  a   machine, 
Or   rather  he  mounted,   and  then  it  was  plain 
That  Tim   had  a  lightness  of  head  or  of  brain, 
And  his  wife  most  certainly  thought  him  insane, 

lie  raised   such  a  deuce  of  a  scene. 

*33 


134  Cycling  Bab   Ballads. 

The  first  thing  he  did  when  he  got  on  the  back 

Of  his  bicycle  steed  was  to  holler  out  "Jack!" 

"Jack,  you  scoundrel!     Jack,  you   dog, 

You  said  it  was  easy  as  riding  a   frog, 

Or  sitting  astride  of  a  rainbow  at  noon, 

And  sliding  along  to  the  lap   of  the  moon, 

Hallo!  you  scamp,  I'm  running  away, 

And  there  on   the  hill  is   a  wagon   of  hay, 

Heaven  send  help,  here's  the  devil  to  pay." 

"  Twist  to  the  right,"  shouted  Jack  from  behind, 

And  Tim  not  only  twisted   but  twined, 

In  an  elegant  fashion  which  called  to  one's  mind 

The  mazy  curves  and  wavy  flow 

Of  the   thread  Ariadne  gave  to  her  beau. 

But  there's  never  a  lane  without  a  turn, 
And  there's  never  a  fire  but's  bound  to  burn, 
There's   never  a  buckle  without  a  bend, 
And  there's  never  a  story  without  an  end. 
And  so  said  Tim  when  he  went  for  the  door 
Of  a  cottage  neat  and  trim, 


Cycling  Bab   Ballads.  135 

And  laid  it  flat  on  the  clean-swept  floor 
In  the  midst  of  a  thunderation  roar 
Of  babies  and  women  and  children  and  men, 
Who   reckoned  "old  Nick"  had  broken   his   pen 
And  came  for  his  supper  on  earth,  and   then, 
To  have  'em  to  supper   with  him. 

Having  busted  the  door  the  bicycle  bent 
Its  backbone  under  the   table,  and  sent 

The  crockery  on   an   excursion. 
And  Tim   was  sitting  on  cranberry  pie, 
With   a   chow-chow   pickle  patch  over  his  eye, 
And   he    reached    for    a    prayer  book  and  then  with   a 
sigh, 

Led  the  family  prayer  for  conversion. 


THE   LAY   OF   A   RECREANT. 

RIDING  on  a  bicycle  may  all  be  very  nice, 
Riding    on  a  tricycle  may  pay  for  once  or  twice, 
Riding  on  a  steamboat  is  purely  simply  sweet, 
But  for  quiet  calm  enjoyment  buggy  riding  can't  be  beat. 

Riding  in  a  buggy,  boys,  behind  a  trotting  mare, 
What  means  of  locomotion  with  a  buggy  can  com- 
pare. 

Riding  on  a  bicycle  you're  not  allowed  a  whip, 

And  except  you're  on  a  "  sociable  "  you  cannot  use  your 

lip, 
Then    riding    on    a   steamboat    there's   a  crowd   on  every 

hand, 

While  you  needn't  have  but  two  within  a  buggy  on  the 

land. 
136 


Cycling  Bab   Ballads.  137 

Riding  in  a  buggy,  boys,  behind  a  trotting  marc. 
What  means  of  locomotion   with  a  buggy  can  com- 
pare. 

Riding  on   a  bicycle's  a  sort  of  Jersey  treat, 

A   "  sociable"  is  better,  for  she  may  be  very  "sweet;" 

True,  a  shady  nook  or  corner  on  a  steamboat  you  may 

find, 
But   there's    nothing    like    a    buggy    when    no    bicycler's 

behind. 

Two  within  a  buggy,  boys,  behind  a  trotting  marc. 
The  devil   take  the  bicycle   that    can    with  that  com- 
pare. 


"LE   MISANTHROPE." 

NOW  do  I  ride  a  bicycle, 
Why, yes,  you  just  can  bet 
Your  bottom  dollar  that  I  do 

And  so  should  you,  but  yet! 
Before  you  choose  your  mount,  my  man, 

Just  look  around  and  try 
What  bicycle  of  all   on  earth 
Is  the  worst   machine  to  buy. 

For  by  the  luck  that  prompts  a  man 

To  buy  the  crack  machine, 
I  swear  that  he  who  buys  the  best 
Is  most  serenely  "green;" 
138 


Cycling  Bab   Ballads.  139 

Because  you  know,  or  if  you  don't, 

You  shortly  soon  will  see, 
That  about  what's  good — or  worse — what's  best, 

Two  cyclers  can't  agree. 

It  mollifies  a  fellow  quite, 

To  tell  him  he's  a  fool, 
Or  to  hint  quite  sweet  and  gently 

That  he'd  better  go  to   school ; 
But  the  most  consoling  news  when  he 

Has  bought  a  new  machine, 
Is  to  tell  him   there's  some  better  mount 

He  surely  should  have  seen. 

I've   had  a  "  Standard,"  "  Special   Club." 

A  "Challenge,"  "Expert,"  "  Star," 
But  every  time   I  bought   a  mount 

Some  cycling   sage  would   mar 
The  satisfaction   to  be   gained, — 

From  singling  from   the   rest, 
The   premier    mount — by   telling  me 

I'd  bought  the  second  best. 


140  Cycling  Bab   Ballads. 

At  present  I'm  possessor  of 

A  blooming  "  Victor  Trike," 
For  which   I   changed  my   "  Expert," 

Which   I'd    really  learned  to  like  ; 
And  now  there's  Harry  White  must  owe 

Me  some  eternal  grudge. 
For  he  says  I'm  such  a  jackass, 

In  not  trading  for  a  Rudge. 

Now  by  the  hopes   that  once  I   had 

Of  unity  of  thought, 
About  the  best  I  tell  you  buy 

The  worst  that  can  be  bought; 
For  that's  the  only  way  to  G 

With  all  your  cycling  kind, 
And  the  universal  verdict  will 

Agree  with  yours  you'll   find. 


THE  BRITISHER'S  LAMENT 

AFTER  BUYING  AND  TRYING  TO  RIDE  AN   "AMERICAN 

STAR"  BICYCLE. 

O    BROTHERS,  listen  to  the  song 
That  I'm  about  to  sing, 
I  tell  you  that  you've  never  yet 

Experienced  such  a  thing 
As  I'm  about  to  tell  you  of, 

Though  you've  ridden  fast  and  far, 
For  you've  never  straddled  yet,  my  friends, 
A  d Yankee  "  Star." 

And  what  is  that  I  hear  you  say, 

In  genuine  surprise, 

Well   then,  my  friends,  it's   nothing  more 

Than  what  it's  name  implies  ; 

141 


142  Cycling  Bab  Ballads. 

Or  rather,  it's  a  comet,  for, 

Ride  you  near  or  ride  you  far, 

The  big  wheel  follows  after 
In  that  d Yankee  "  Star." 

You  must  know   I'm  not  a  champion 

Of  swearing,  as  a  rule, 
And  I  don't  approve  of  telling  tales 

Within,  or  out  of  school ; 
But  by  every  blazing  ember 

That  burns  in  heaven  afar, 
If  you  want  to  break  your  neck,  just  ride 

A  d Yankee  "  Star." 

It  is  a  safety  bicycle 

Beyond  a  living  doubt, 
If  safety  lies  in  stomach  pumps, 

And  turning  inside  out ; 
And  that  is  why  the  doctors  all, 

In  loving  friendship,  are 
Beseeching  you  to  mount  and   ride 

A  d Yankee  "  Star." 


Cycling  Bab   Ballads.  143 

Yes  a  header's  sometimes  pleasant 

And  often  is  immense, 
When  your  handles  gently  hold  you  back 

From  bolting  through  a  fence ; 
But  the  pleasure's  always  lacking 

When  a  twelve-inch  handle  bar 
Digs  you  squarely  in  the  stomach 

On  that  d Yankee  "  Star." 

Now  that's  the  fix  that  I  was  in 

A  few  short  nights  ago, 
When  horn  and  steel  both  strove  to  net 

Where  softer  victuals  go ; 
Not  only  that,  my  feelings  too, 

Which  sweetly  touchy  are, 
Were  mortified  extremely 

By  that  d Yankee  "Star." 

For   Mary  saw  me  coming   down 

The   street  on   that  machine, 
A   putting  on   an   awful   spurt 

To  show   I   wasn't  green  ; 


144  Cycling  Bab   Ballads. 

When  just  as  I  was  passing  by 
Old  Tompkins'  toy  bazaar, 

I  showed  her  how  I  managed  that  'ere 
D old  Yankee  "  Star." 

I've  traveled  on  a  stage  coach,  once, 

And  soared  in  a  balloon, 
I'd  serious  thoughts   of  taking  once 

Verne's  railroad  to  the  moon  ; 
I've  squirmed  upon  a  camel, 

And  an  Irish  jaunting  car, 
But  devil  a  one  of  them  all  can  beat 

That  d Yankee  "Star." 


THE   BRITISHER'S    LAMENT,   No.  II. 


O   BRETHREN  of  the  wheel,  I'll  sing 
You  yet  another  song, 
I  do   assure  you  that  it  will 
Be  neither  short  nor  long  ; 
For  my  wits  are  fairly  flummuxed 

And  scattered  near   and  far, 
By  the  anti-human  antics 

Of  that  d Yankee  "  Star." 

I  seriously   had   thoughts  of  steering 

Eastward    my  canoe. 
For  I'll  tell   you  what's   a  secret  now 

To  all  but  me  and  you  ; 

MS 


146  Cycling  Bab   Ballads. 

Since  the  day  I  dined   on  sawdust, 
Near  Tomkins'  toy  bazaar, 

Why  Mary's  cut  me  just   as  I 
Cut  that  d Yankee  "  Star." 

She  cut  me  dead,  I   do  declare, 

For  what  I   do  not  know, 
Except   for   having  made  myself 

A  handlebar-numbed  show ; 
Or  perhaps  because  I  cut  myself, 

For  this  confounded  scar 
Is  a  legacy  bequeathed  me  by 

That  d Yankee  "  Star." 

And  now  there  comes  to  cap  my  woes 

The   story   swooping  down, 
That  the  "Star,"  at  Philadelphia 

Nearly  grabbed  the  racing  crown; 
After  hopping  round  at  Springfield 

In  a  way  that  dashed  afar 
My  hopes  of  how  grim  fate  would  treat 

That  d Yankee  "Star." 


Cycling  Bab   Ballads.  147 


Not  satisfied  with   having   made 

Me   court  a  "  Gibson  "   keg\ 
For  physic  kept   it's   busted  now 

Another  fellow's  leg- ; 
And    I'm  told  that   Hendee  '11  have   to   hire 

A   Pullman  palace  car 
To  pull   the   man   along  who   rides 

A  d Yankee  "Star." 

And  next  the  pesky  thing  will   shoot 

Across  Atlantic's  wave, 
And  influence  some  noted  "cracks" 

To  court  an  early  grave; 
O  darn  it  all,  as  Shakespeare   says, 

It's  going  quite  too  far, 
When  legs   and  records   both   get  smashed 

By  that  d Yankee  "  Star." 

I'm  going  straight  to  Westminster, 
The  "grand  old  man"*  shall   hear 

*  William  Ewart  Gladstone. 


!_|S  Cycling  Bab  Ballads. 

What  liberal  views  have  done  for  wheels, 
You    bet  he'll  quake  with  fear; 

And  he'll  call  a  cabinet  council, 
And   he'll   publish  near  and  far, 

How  the  country's  going  to  bust  upon 
A  d Yankee  "Star." 


DEVON  HILL. 

IF  cycling  joys   are  found  among 
Those  promised  us  in  heaven, 
Let's  pray  we'll  find  not  one  that's  like 
That  precious  hill   of  Devon  ; 
"A  thing  of  beauty,"   says  the  bard, 
Will  be  "a  joy  forever," 
But  though   Devon's  hill-top  may  be  joy, 
It's  "  a  thing  of  beauty  "  never. 


T.  A.  S.  (OH'S)   LAMENT? 

A  VULGAR  BALLAD  A  LA  OCCIDENT. 

I'M  a  blamed  tough,  ripping  rider  on  the  "  bi ;" 
I'm  a  racer  too  you  just  can  "  bet  your  eye  ;" 
I'm  a  terror  on  the   "  wheel," 
A  sundowner  on   a  "steal" 
For  to  "  hook  "  a  brand  new  bicycle  "  I'm   fly." 

Let  me  get  my  claws  once  on  a  handsome  "  bike," 
Give  me  twenty  yards  or  so   upon  the  "pike;" 

To  catch  me  then  you'll  fail 

Though   you  gripped   the  "  old   gent's  "  tail 

And  he  rode  a  Hades'  manufactured   "  trike." 

149 


150  Cycling  Bab  Ballads. 

If  you  own  a  "  Rucker  Tandem  "  or  a  "  trike  " 
Or  an  "  Expert  "  or  some  other  kind  of  "  bike," 

Pretty  "  Facile  "  or  fat  "  Club," 

"  Star  "   or  any  other  tub, 
Say  your  aves  when  you  meet  me  on  the  pike. 

Yes  you  reckon  I'm  a  racer  and  all  think 
That  I'm  bound  to  "raise  the  hair"  on  dear  old  "Brink." 
Oh  !  you  bet  he's  sick  and  hazy 

1 

As  is  every  other  daisy, 
For  of  racers  T.  A.  S.*  is  just  "  the  pink." 


*  A  member  of  the  Pennsylvania  Bicycle  Club. 


SHORT  "  PANTS  "  AND  LONG  LUNGS. 

THERE'S  a  nuisance  that  we  must  abate, 
One  that  sorely  afflicts  this  our  town, 
What  it  is  I   need  only  to  state- 
To  insure  its  completest  knock  down  ; 
And  this  great  crying  evil  we  see 

When  our  heart  is  the  fullest  of  joy, 
For  that  is  the  moment  of  bliss 

To  the  heart  of  the  selfish  small  boy. 

He's  the  nuisance  that  troubles  this  town, 
Though  he's  all  very  nice  in  his  way, 

Indeed  it's  a  question  to  me 

How  without  him  we'd  live  for  a  day; 


152  Cycling  Bab   Ballads. 

But  I  tell  you  his  worth  is  not  quite 
Its  weight  in  proverbial  old  gold, 

When  he  takes  the  fell  notion  to  make 
You,  through  using  expletives,  grow  old. 

Now  mark  !  I'm  in  no  way  disposed 

To  disparage  our  blooming  young  sons, 
Though  in  matters  of  pleasure  they  purely 

Consider  their  sweet  "  Number  Ones ;" 
And  on  this  very  head  I  complain 

That  the  rising  young  nation  to-day 
Is  addicted  most  strongly  to  some 

Most  precociously  smart  kinds  of  play. 

Now,  for  instance,  when  I  was  a  boy, 

And  from  being  so  fully  inclined 
To  indulge  in  all  innocent  larks 

Which  my  free  roving  fancy  could  find, 
I'd  play  each  unpatented  trick 

That  to  youthful  affection  appeals, 
Yet  I  never  dared  say  to  a  "  dad  " 

"  You're  a  nice  looking  dude  upon  wheels." 


Cycling  Bab   Ballads.  153 

Now  this  is  the  nuisance  I  say- 
That  Councils  must  surely  abate, 

For,  brothers,  what  is  there  at  all 
In  Councils,  or  Senate,  or  State, 

If  we  cyclers  can't  ride  at   our  ease 

Without  hearing  the  pride-purging  squeals 

Come  sailing  along,  from  some  son  going  wrong : 
"  You're  a  nice  looking  dude  upon  wheels "  ? 


THE  devil    take  the   bicycle," 
Was  all  the  deacon   said, 
When  bearing  up  against   the   wind 

He  landed  on  his  head; 
So  said  his  wife  when  putting  back 

The  broomstick    in   the   shed, 
While   the   good    man   wished  for   two  stout  Turks 
And  a  trusty    feather  bed. 


RHYME  THE   LAST. 


after  all  the  bother 

This  old  book  has  given  Chris, 
Will   you   not   for  once  be   kindly 
Every  girl   knows  how  to  kiss. 
Ha!  you  say  that  asking  in  this 

Fashion,  I  the  boon  shall  miss; 
Perhaps — but  have  you  never  dreamed 
That  Chris  would  sing  a  song  like  this. 


i54 


